Taken
by ShazzyZhang
Summary: When their Guardian Angel goes missing, the Saints of South Boston will stop at nothing to get her back. Rated T for violence, mayhem and language.
1. Chapter 1

_AN: I felt the sudden urge to write this because, we never get to see the desperate side of the brothers MacManus. We don't get to see them deal with loss very often, you have to admit that they are some of the luckiest people in fiction without being Mary-Sue-like, so what happens when you take that away? Also, I use Blaise in all of these stories because she's familiar and I have a whole world built around her in my head (way back from my RP days, if y'all recall) so sue me. _

_As usual, I don't own the characters portrayed except for Blaise._

_Slainté._

_-Shazzy_

**Taken**

The lights of the police cars were visible from beyond the edge of the block. The alternating red and blue bounced off of the surrounding buildings and reflected back, making a strobe light of lawfulness. The brothers could see the lights from more than half a block away.

Worry began to creep past the edges of adrenaline and exhaustion.

Their hideout was in a good neighbourhood, where crime was virtually non-existent. They'd stayed as long as they had for a reason. Their guardian angel, Blaise, paid good money to keep her privacy intact and it had served the Saints well to be associated with her.

"It's someone else, right?" Connor asked rhetorically.

"Aye." Murphy replied hesitantly, unsure about it himself. "An' we'll just sneak in th' back like we always do."

The brothers slowed their pace, the twinges of panic coming quicker and more noticeably the closer they got to their hideout. Luckily, they were approaching from the opposite side of where the barricade began and they could get a better look at what was happening from a distance.

Both of the brothers felt their hearts sink as they were able to see the scene for what it was.

The police cars were situated around the familiar two story Victorian style house that the infamous Saints had been calling home for the past months. Yellow police tape fluttered in the cool night breeze and uniformed police officers milled about the neighbourhood, moving mechanically in and out of the crime scene.

Connor dropped the bag he was holding and it slipped through his fingers, hitting the ground with a dull thud.

"Blaise?" He choked. "Oh God..."

Murphy was quick, and he was lucky. He dropped his own duffel bag and threw his arms around his brother, one gloved hand barely able to muffle the tormented yell that escaped Connor's mouth. He pulled his brother close, fighting against his struggling twin and eventually pulling them both to the ground to stop Connor from running directly into the waiting arms of Boston's finest.

"Connor, hush..." Murphy begged, holding fast to his brother's shaking body. He was choking back his own worry and his own tears. "We're no good ta' her if we're in jail."

They sat there on the ground for a long time, the gravel and asphalt digging into Murphy's knees through his thin jeans as he watched the scene around Blaise's house carefully. Connor was barely paying attention, shaking and mumbling what Murphy assumed was a prayer between weak attempts to rush to the house.

"There's no ambulance." Murphy said after a long silence.

"So?" Connor replied, still doubled over with his head nearly touching the cold pavement.

Murphy slowly let go of his brother, resting his hand against his twin's back in a gesture of reassurance, and a reminder to Connor that he'd grab him again if he tried to bolt. "So it means tha' she's no' hurt, or dead."

Slowly, Connor lifted his head to look.

Murphy was right. There was no ambulance, just a half dozen police cars and two unmarked sedans with police lights flashing in their windows.

"Issat Duffy an' Dolly, d'you think?" Connor asked, pointing out the unmarked cars.

Murphy looked at where his brother was pointing. "Maybe." He replied. "Or at least Greenbeans."

Connor wrinkled his nose, as much as he loved Detective Greenly, he wasn't Connor's first choice in detectives to have working on a case. Especially not when loved ones were involved. As far as Connor was concerned, Greenly wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed.

"What do we do?" Connor asked, his voice cracking. He was lost for the first time in recent memory.

"We wait." Murphy said somberly.

A shrill chirp sounded from Connor's pocket, breaking the sullen silence that had descended upon the brothers again.

"The hell is that?" Murphy asked.

Connor reached into his pea coat pocket and produced the throwaway cell phone that Blaise had insisted he carry when they go on their 'missions'. She claimed that it was better to have one and not need it, than to need a phone and not have one. And phone booths were a rare commodity these days.

"She's a fucking genius." Murphy announced, clapping his brother on the shoulder.

"Blaise?" Connor asked into the phone as he held it hesitantly to his ear.

"No, sorry." The voice on the other end drawled. "It's Duffy."

"Oh, Duffy..." Connor visibly deflated and Murphy grabbed the phone.

"You at Blaise's?" Murphy snapped.

"Where _are you_?" Duffy replied.

"Safe, for now." Murphy said cryptically. "What happened?"

"Dunno yet." Duffy said. He was standing just beyond the police tape. Murphy could just make him out in the glow of the street lights. "We're working on it."

"Is Blaise okay?" Murphy asked, eyeing his brother.

Connor's body stiffened as he listened to the important question Murphy was asking.

"She's not dead." Duffy answered. "I think."

"That's not very reassuring, Duffy." Murphy warned.

Connor moved to get up but Murphy held up his hand to halt his brother. Surprisingly, Connor listened.

"She's not here." Duffy continued. "It looks like there was a struggle, but there's no blood anywhere. And we haven't found a note yet. We're not sure what's happened, so sit tight. I'll let you know what I know when I know anything, all right?"

"Yeah, thanks." Murphy said glumly.

"Slainté." Duffy replied and hung up his phone.

"And?" Connor asked desperation creeping into the edges of his voice.

"They dunno." Murphy replied slowly. "She's just... gone. Taken, maybe."

"By who?" Connor asked. "It's not like she has any enemies. And no one knows about us except the Detectives."

Murphy shrugged. "We'll find her, Conn." He said reassuringly. "Promise."

Connor nodded and stood slowly. He picked up his bag and set his shoulders in grim determination. "Someone is gonna pay for this."

"Aye." Murphy replied, following suit. "For now, though, we need ta' get outta here before th' cops find us."

Hesitantly, Connor followed his brother into the shadows and the Saints disappeared into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

_AN: Here. Take it. Enjoy it. Tell your friends. _

_Slainté._

_-Shazzy_

**-Hostage-**

She woke with a start, but didn't move any further.

She was completely aware of what happened, she'd been hit over the head and rendered unconscious. Breathing slowly through her nose, she didn't move, didn't even open her eyes.

Being a writer, and the daughter of a police officer had it's advantages.

The first was a logical thought process. The second was an over-active imagination. The third and probably most valuable advantage she'd had was the fact that she had been trained as a child to keep herself in excellent physical condition. She wasn't an Olympic athlete by any stretch, but she made sure to keep herself fit and to keep up her martial arts training.

Blaise squeezed her eyes tighter for a moment, letting her thoughts collect slowly as she felt out her predicament.

She was sitting, her head hanging forward, her shoulders slouched slightly. She could feel that she was bound at her wrists and ankles. Handcuffs, maybe. Something taught against her belly suggested that she was tied to the chair, but whether it was rope or tape she couldn't say. She wasn't blindfolded and she wasn't gagged.

_Well that's not a good sign._ Blaise thought to herself. _They want information. They're going to use scare tactics on me._

She allowed herself another long moment of contemplation about what, exactly, that could mean.

_Bollocks._

Blaise was a writer. Choosing to fight crime in the realm of fiction, rather than on the mean streets, she'd been a bestselling author for years. An only child raised by a single father, she'd had plenty of time to hone her imagination. And she'd been reaping the benefits of it, much to her father's delight.

Blaise had been lucky enough to have been friends with the MacManus brothers before they had become the infamous Saints of South Boston. Lately she'd been harbouring her vigilante friends, making sure that they stayed out of trouble. They'd lost too many friends already, and the privacy and security that Blaise the writer paid for certainly made her home the ideal hideout. Besides, it wasn't like she would let the only man she'd ever had more than a fleeting crush on just disappear, vigilante or not. And the Saints were kind of a packaged deal, so she'd ended up hiding them both and running errands for them, feeding them information and doing whatever a writer could to help the two angels of death continue their holy mission.

Besides being friends with the Saints, Blaise had made her way in with the Mayor, donating money and speaking at charity events or running events of her own, and with her father being an Irish cop, she'd had the pleasure of making friends with most of the older detectives on the force.

Between Connor and Murphy, the Mayor of Boston, and Detectives Dolly and Duffy, she knew that there would be a veritable army looking for her when the neighbours reported the strange goings-on.

Now if only she knew where she was, and how she could get a message to her boys.

It had been a home invasion. Blaise O'Malley was sitting quietly in her own home, a two story Victorian number in South Boston. It was a family home she'd been willed by her father after he was shot and killed by the Yakavetta family. The elder O'Malley had been the cop who'd taught Blaise everything he knew. She'd been sitting quietly on her couch, in her pyjamas reading a book, waiting for her Saints to to get home. She'd paid for privacy and security and no one had any reason to suspect her involvement with anything that the Saints did, so it was more than a little shocking when the invaders arrived.

The initial text message she'd managed to send off was a single word to Detective Duffy, he was the first contact she could think of to dial as the masked men kicked open the heavy, steel-reinforced oak door.

"Help" was cryptic enough to have Duffy rush over to her place, so she typed it immediately and shoved her phone into her couch cushions. She didn't want these men to find her phone right away if she could help it. There were contacts in her phone she'd rather keep private.

There were three of them, dressed in black with ski masks. For a split second she'd thought it was Connor and Murphy screwing with her, but the third man, and the second look that told her these men were too big to be the MacManuses, sent her into panic mode.

She was on her feet before they were fully aware that she was even in the living room. She'd been reading a heavy, hardcover book and she brandished it like a weapon. She managed to clock the first man in the side of the face with her book, getting rewarded with a dull crunch as cheek or jaw snapped. She growled her satisfaction as he stumbled back into his partners.

She was on the stairs, running when they grabbed her. She was small in comparison to these men and they'd had no trouble lifting her from the ground. She screamed and flailed uselessly, unable to get a shot at the person holding her in a way that could do any damage. She tried her hardest to fight back, biting the bare hand that attempted to cover her mouth.

She didn't understand the language in which she was being yelled at, which was a clue as to who it was that had set their sights on her. She swung an elbow, catching her attacker in the side of the head. A momentary release of the grip around her waist was enough for her to pry herself away and make for the stairs again. She made it to the top this time and partway down the hall before she was caught again.

"Let me go, you bastard!" Blaise growled, clawing and fighting however she could.

She was half dragged down the short flight of stairs, still screaming until she was blue in the face. She needed ten minutes before Duffy would be on her doorstep. By her estimation, less than five had elapsed.

She stopped struggling for half a minute, breathing heavily and whimpering and her ruse paid off. She felt the strong arm relax enough for her to pull away a second time. This time she made for her front door, whirling to face the front entrance and make a run for it.

She'd barely gotten three steps before the man whose face she'd broken with her book hit her over the back of the head. Everything went black before she even hit the ground.

Now she was sitting, bound somewhere and alone. She only hoped that her message had gotten through and that Duffy could figure out where she was before something happened to her.

Through her closed eyes she heard a door open on a squeaky hinge and she felt her heart begin to race. Blaise did her best not to move, not to show any sign that she was actually conscious. She forced herself to breathe regularly as heavy footsteps approached.

"Wake up, little writer." A deep voice crooned.

Blaise couldn't place the accent.

"We have some questions you need to answer if you want to go home."

Blaise felt her stomach drop at the words and she slowly opened her eyes.

"Hello, little writer." Blaise's captor said. "Are you ready to tell us a story?"


	3. Chapter 3

_AN: Being a writer is such a dangerous job. And thankless to boot. _

_Slainté_

_-Shazzy_

**-Panic-**

Murphy had convinced Connor that spending the night at their hideout, at Blaise's place, was a bad idea. Cops would be crawling all over the house, looking for clues, waiting by the phone, whatever it was that cops did when they were investigating something bad. He'd had to drag his brother away from the scene, especially after their chat with Duffy on the cell phone.

Connor was unhappy. More than unhappy. He muttered quietly to himself, plotting all the ways he'd get revenge if anything happened to Blaise as he stared out the window. His knuckles were white as he gripped the chipped ceramic diner coffee mug in his hands, ignoring the burn of the overly hot coffee emanating through the mug.

The brothers had gone to a coffee shop and were sitting quietly in the farthest back booth, waiting for Duffy to show up. The detective had every reason to meet with the brothers, he knew that Blaise was an accomplice, and he knew exactly how much she meant to the brothers, especially Connor. And hell, Duffy was a friend of Blaise's, as much as he was a friend of the brothers, if not more.

"Connor, she's fine." Murphy said flatly, snapping his brother out of his miserable introspection.

Connor turned his blue eyes away from the grimy window to stare at Murphy across the table. "You can't know that."

Murphy gave his brother an unimpressed glare. "Do you want me to make you feel better or not?"

"Not." Connor muttered, staring sullenly into his coffee. "I want to be angry. I want to hate myself for lettin' this happen. I want to find th' bastards responsible and rain hell down on their heads."

Murphy waited in the silence that followed Connor's rant. There was something else that he seemed hesitant to say.

Connor shook his head and returned to staring out the window.

"We'll get her back, Conn." Murphy said quietly.

"This is our fault." Connor replied.

"I don't see how that's possible." Murphy pressed. "She's not known to be an accomplice of ours. There's no one who knows about us, except Duffy. An' it's no' like he's runnin' off to tell the bad guys where we're hiding."

Connor looked back at his brother, disbelief evident on his face. "You're sittin' here an' telling me tha' this is a _coincidence?_" He asked.

Murphy nodded, desperate to believe it himself.

Connor snorted and shook his head. "Why?"

"Connor!" Murphy snapped. "She works with th' cops as a consultant. She's a famous crime writer. She has a knack for puttin' together court cases for the FBI that actually get things t' stick." Murphy continued on, passionately. "She's actually on th' path ta' puttin' us out of a job. If she stopped writin' for a year, she could put more'n half a' the Yakavetta empire behind bars for life! Or the Russians. Or whoever th' hell else is runnin' around in our city. She's a prime target in her own right. This has nothin' ta' do with us."

Connor frowned, narrowing his eyes as he considered his brother's words. It was true. All of it was true. Blaise was far smarter than anyone else when it came to putting criminals behind bars. She knew _exactly_ where to dig, where to press and which weaknesses to exploit. She'd had a hand in the last ten crime trials the police had been able to bring up against the mob. She'd put at least five mobsters behind bars for life, and the last case she had a hand in was still in court. The rumour was that the death penalty was on the table for that one, and that a plea bargain was out of the question.

She was an avenging angel who used words and logic as weapons, instead of guns, and worked with the laws of Man.

"Stop thinkin' with yer cock, Connor." Murphy chided, grinning cheekily. "You're being blinded by yer love fer the writer, young padawan."

"Can it, Obi Wan." Connor growled in return, his mood vastly improving. "So this was what? Yakavetta?"

"Don't think so." Duffy sighed, sliding into the booth next to Connor, choosing to sit where he could see the entire restaurant. "Hey Murph."

Murphy smiled at the grey-haired detective. "You look like shit."

"Don't feel much better." Duffy agreed as the waitress brought coffee.

"You got a lead yet?" Connor asked, desperation creeping in at the edge of his words as the waitress refilled Murphy's coffee mug and left.

Duffy shook his head, sipping on the overly hot coffee. "Not really." He admitted. "You guys piss anyone off lately?"

"This has nothin' ta' do with us." Murphy said evenly, shooting a glance at Connor. "Who's in court 'cause of Blaise right now?"

Duffy groaned. "Fuck." He said, shaking his head. "I'll bet no one's thought of that yet."

"It's because no one makes a big deal over it." Murphy pressed on before Connor could fly off the handle again. "She's nameless when it comes to these cases. Only people on the inside of these cases would know she's been preparing things for the cops and the FBI."

"You sayin' someone might be dirty?" Duffy asked, his voice cool.

Murphy shook his head. "Just sayin' ta' check all yer angles."

Duffy sighed. He knew Murphy was right, someone was feeding information to someone that they shouldn't be. He just hated the thought of someone he worked with every day being dirty.

"There's three Yakavetta cases pending, one against the Russians and she's started on a Triad case." Duffy listed. "That's all I know. She doesn't share a lot when it comes to preparing court cases, she needs the secrecy."

"It's a start." Connor said slowly. "So we look at them first?" He asked, more rhetorically than anything.

"I'll go make the call." Duffy agreed. He moved to get up from the table but stopped. "Where are you guys staying tonight?"

Murphy shrugged. "We'll figure that out when we get there." He admitted. "Sleep is a long way off, for us."

Connor smirked. "Yeah, and you an' Dolly an' Greenly are gonna have another mess ta' clean up."

Duffy couldn't help but smile. "Bastards, the both of you." He said as he got up. "I'll go call the others, get 'em lookin' at anyone involved with the cases Blaise has been working on. And I'll letcha know what's what as soon as I know anything, okay?"

"Thanks, Duffy." Murphy said.

Connor watched Duffy's retreating back and took a hesitant sip of his now-tepid coffee. "You got a plan, Murph?"

Murphy nodded. "Yeah, let's go get our own information."

Connor took another gulp of his coffee, fished a few dollar bills out of his pocket and dropped them on the table. "Lead the way, my dear brother."


	4. Chapter 4

_AN: Finally figured out who's doing what. Kind of._

_Missed me?_

_-Shazzy_

**-Interrogation-**

Blaise opened her eyes, obviously she wasn't fooling this man. She stared up at him, shaking uncontrollably in fear. He was whip-thin, and the veins on his arms stood out against his tanned skin. He was middle-aged, maybe in his early fifties, and he was obviously in better shape than even the detectives. His hair was greying and his eyes were ice blue. His nose was narrow and his cheekbones stood out, pronounced in his thinness.

"What do you want?" Blaise asked weakly.

"Information." The man crooned in his strange accent. "You seem to be the one who knows everything that happens in this city without being directly involved in anything interesting."

"What are you talking about?" Blaise countered. "I'm a writer. I drink more than I should, I don't sleep, and I compensate with caffeine. I write fiction, fer Chrissakes."

"Are you IRA?"

Blaise laughed aloud, a genuine laugh of amusement despite the danger she was in. "God, no." She smiled. "My Da' was a cop, he'd come back fra' the grave and kick my ass if I was IRA."

"Then how do you know so much?" The man asked again.

Blaise sighed and slouched against the bonds holding her. "Look, I think you've got the wrong girl. I don't know what you're talking about and I honestly -"

The sound of his hand smacking Blaise's face echoed in the small room. She hadn't been prepared for it. He moved so fast. She made a small, whimpering noise of pain and shock as she slouched sideways, limply.

"You will speak with respect when you speak to me."

Blaise righted herself in the chair and glared daggers at her attacker. "Big man, hitting a woman tied to a chair. I'm so _fucking _terrified." She added sarcastically.

He raised his hand to slap her again and Blaise interrupted him, speaking quickly. "If you lay another hand on me," she growled, "you will find that all the prayers in the world, all the pleading and begging to every god in every pantheon imaginable will not be enough to save you from the hell that you will experience in MY name."

A cold smile crept across the man's face and he crouched in front of her so that their eyes were level. "You speak with big, brave words for so simple a writer." He said, placing his hand gently against her knee. "You make me almost believe you."

"Belief is a mighty powerful thing." Blaise said evenly, trying to keep her temper in check. There wasn't much that she could do being bound the way she was. And she certainly didn't want to give this man any reason to walk to the workbench that filled the wall behind them.

"And who is it that believes in you so much that they would be willing to blaspheme against all the gods?"

A smile touched Blaise's mouth and a sort of delirious malice crept into her eyes. "They go by many names." She murmured, drawing out her words and laying her accent on thick through the swelling in her face, making herself sound like she was in a trance. "But they are mine, and they do not take kindly to unnecessary aggression. They do not fear blasphemy, for they walk neither in the light, nor the dark. I think you might call them angels of death, I simply look at them as hell hounds. Beasts summoned from beyond to do my bidding. To protect me and to keep me safe from harm. Immortal, and unkillable by mortal weapons."

The man smiled. "I look forward to meeting them."

"Oh, you'll meet them all right." Blaise assured him, playing up her forced insanity. "They won't be long." She dropped her voice to a whisper. "I can hear them coming."

"Then we had better work quickly."

_Fuck._

Blaise huffed through her nose as panic crept up on her and turned her stomach to acid. "Why don't you just tell me what you want?" Blaise offered. "My hell hounds will be more lenient on you if we can conduct our business in a more civilized manner."

The man stared at Blaise and she stared right back, blood dripping from the split in her lip.

"You have information. I want it." The man said simply. "And I will stop at nothing to get it."


	5. Chapter 5

**-Canaries-**

Connor and Murphy decided at they needed to hit up their contacts. The hole left after the Yakavetta thing meant that there were new players on the scene and without Rocco they boys had had to find new ways of securing information.

Their current informant was an old Russian by the name of Yakob. He worked in a bar, running illegal games of poker for the mob, and generally doing all the bookkeeping for the Russian syndicates. He wasn't attached to any one family, and his disdain for the lifestyle made him a prime candidate to help the brothers. Yakob was former KGB, and he looked like he could snap a man in half with just his left arm. His right arm was nothing to take lightly, either. If he'd been attached to a specific syndicate, he'd have been a first-class enforcer. Now, however, he was just a wealth of information.

Connor knocked on the back door.

"I have been waiting for you." Yakob drawled in English, his words heavy with this accent. "Come in. Hurry up."

Connor and Murphy slipped into the back room of the smoky bar. A familiar place for them. It was well past closing time and no one seemed to be hanging around.

"Things are happening that are beyond my control." Yakob explained as he led the brothers back into his bar. He pulled down a bottle of vodka and set it on the counter, followed by a bottle of whiskey. He then poured each of the brothers a glass of beer and set three shot glasses on the counter.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Murphy crooned, picking up the offered beer and ignoring the harder liquor. He knew that he needed to be sober and thinking clearly if they were going to get their writer back before too much harm had befallen her. He wouldn't stop Connor from having a few drinks, however, should his twin feel the need to take the edge off of his nervousness.

Connor simply lit a cigarette, scowling and waiting to hear what Yakob had to say.

"I heard about the writer already." Yakob said slowly. "She works for the police, ya?"

Connor narrowed his eyes and Murphy pushed the other beer towards his brother, telling him silently with the action to calm down.

"Is she a friend of yours?" Yakob asked further.

"Aye." Murphy agreed with a nod, watching Connor carefully. His brother wasn't one to fly off the handle. Usually, Connor fumed and plotted and unleashed his rage in a sadistic and highly inappropriate manner. Murphy was the one with the shorter temper of the two of them, but Blaise had never been in this much danger before. Adding the seriousness (and, Murphy was loath to admit, intimacy) of her relationship with Connor to the mix made for even more dangerous decisions on Connor's part, and Murphy was worried about what his brother might do if anything worse happened to her.

"What do you know, Yakob?" Connor asked.

Murphy nearly choked on his drink, the pain and desperation in Connor's voice was uncharacteristic of the twin and it broke Murphy's heart.

Yakob stared for a long moment at Connor, understanding and sympathy behind his carefully blank mask of neutrality.

"Not much." Yakob admitted. "It was not the Russians, though, I can assure you of that much." He explained slowly. "The families are worried that there has been much immigration into the city in the wake of your work."

"Sorry to ruin the family reunions." Murphy muttered bitterly.

Yakob smiled at the joke before continuing. "Many of the families are worried that the writer will turn her sights onto them next. There has been much talk about what should be done about her, but the bosses say that she is not to be touched. She is not an enemy, and that if everyone is more careful, there will be nothing for her to work with. The fact that she is able to find the holes and pull them apart means that we are growing sloppy and complacent in our ways. She only does what she is asked to do, and she uses our own weaknesses against us."

"So if it wasn't the Russians?" Connor asked.

"I am getting to that." Yakob assured him. "Believe me, your friend is is in no danger from my families. She would, in fact, be more than welcome to come and share a table with many of the men who drink in here."

Murphy nudged his brother, a gesture of reassurance. Blaise was smart and respected, even by those who would consider her an enemy. She'd managed to pull off something that the brothers had otherwise been unable to do.

"We think that you are facing a new problem." Yakob said solemnly. "There are new families moving in. Not Italians, not Russians."

"Yakuza?" Connor asked. "Triad?"

Yakob shook his head. "No, they do not worry themselves with the territory here. The few who try are run out by the Yakavettas or their other families. You're dealing with a new threat, my friends." He explained, watching Connor carefully. "The lure of the gun-running that the IRA has had such a stranglehold on has become very sought-after. The fertile grounds here make for an alluring target, and many new families are moving to America to try their luck."

"Who?" Connor asked flatly.

"We believe that the Slovaks are now moving in against us." Yakob said finally. "And that the writer has become a target for information."

Connor growled.

"But she doesn't know anything." Murphy pointed out. "She puts things together logically and shows people how to work out their own cases andd arguments with the evidence she pulls from thin air!"

"She shouldn't be a target." Connor agreed. "And how the fuck do they know she's involved with the cops anyway? It's no' like she's out there flashing her smile on camera with th' DA or anything!"

A moment passed and Yakob looked away from the brothers, sheepishly.

Connor and Murphy exchanged looks.

"Mother_fucker_." Connor growled.

Murphy shook his head. "Dirty cops?" He asked incredulously.

"Please, Yakob, you have t' tell us who." Connor begged.

Yakob frowned. "He is a police officer named Chaney."

A moment passed while the brothers tried to place the name, and why it was so significant.

"He's one a' Duffy's friends." Murphy said quietly, running a hand through his hair. "Shit."

Connor was already on his way out by the time Murphy had figured out the significance of the name.


End file.
